


To Be Haunted

by PWN3D



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Dimitri gets a lot of help, Dimitri needs a lot of help, M/M, Plot spoilers for Blue Lions route, Self-Harm, Timeskip, absolute horror, all that I see, dark fluff? is that a thing, darkness imprisoning me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-23 14:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PWN3D/pseuds/PWN3D
Summary: Dimitri learns to love what little remains.-+-ch3: Dedue returns and begins to put the pieces back together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I wanted to write something where soul-crushed Dimitri gets taken care of. Also Dedue and Dimitri’s A support? Holy fuck 
> 
> This is that. Let me know what you think :) this first chapter is sort of an intro. Things will slow down after. 
> 
> **Also there are a few mentions of self-harm, so please steer clear if that is not your thing**
> 
> Now let’s check in on our boy.

There comes a moment in time when he completely surrenders to himself, to ghosts, to death itself. He is not surprised to know that Dedue was the last thing preventing his complete collapse. 

Even after the Professor dies, Dedue is careful to ground him and forces him to keep one foot planted in the realm of the living. He pushes him through all inconsequential tasks so that he may eat or bathe with some regularity and there is a brief time where he somewhat resembles a human. 

While he hates it, the food is tasteless and nauseating, to touch and wash his skin is to agitate old scars and stir awake the ghosts attached to them… he can’t help but indulge. 

Dedue follows him without complaint and together they strike down countless Imperials in a twisted effort to placate the dead, their lives now both corrupted by his burning need for revenge. Anger is all he feels, regularly replacing the hollow, frigid feeling with a burning hatred until he is growling out responses or snapping in fury over any attempt to change his course. 

It is effective. He is left alone. 

Dedue is different. Dedue remains calm in the face of the worst insults, expression even nearing understanding as he listens to what are surely the ravings of a rabid animal, snarling and lashing out at anything around it. It is tiring to attempt to figure out why they stay together and the spectres never give him enough time to think on it long before raising a fuss. 

Dedue calmly makes a fire each evening before going about cooking with whatever he has foraged. He walks over and forces him to sit by the fire, placing a cloak over his shoulders before being sure to work in sight. It is a nice distraction, to feel warm and to watch Dedue cook. 

They have since given up on bathing him, so he sits with blood soaked into the joints of his armor and distantly, it is at the fireside that he can feel what must be his own wounds ache. His hair falls into his face but they have given up on that as well. There is no time for luxuries. Besides, to touch is to hurt and it is utterly maddening. They have learned that it is not worth the effort. 

Before his thoughts spiral entirely into the abyss, Dedue sits next to him, handing over a small metal bowl of food, their shoulders touch and it is nice. Undeniably so. 

Dedue eats quickly but stays until he has forced down the meal; at some point they have leaned in together and Dedue does not complain, merely wraps an arm around his shoulders to lock them closer. It does little to calm him and everything to invoke the haunted fog that plagues his steps but it is better than being alone. 

It is the one luxury which he endures the screams of the fallen for. 

Dedue always asks after his well-being when they are like this. 

Tonight he expresses softly that he is  _ tired _ . 

It is hard to watch Dedue’s expression become hurt, to have been the one to cause it. Even if Dedue does his best to assure him, he does not respond to the daily check to his well-being again. 

-+-

He waits in a jail cell, for execution. Executing a dead husk, the irony of it all drives him to a hollow laughter; it overwhelms him and his hands go up to his eyes as he curls in on himself and  _ laughs _ . The guards attempt to get him to stop and he looks up only to see matching expressions of twisted horror directed back at him. He snaps at them with a gory threat and they both look away in fear or disgust. 

That is rather funny too somehow and he laughs until his lungs and throat burn. 

Soon he is back to hollow and cold and empty. The ghosts are upset that he cannot complete his revenge. That there will be no peace for them, that he has failed.

The prison does not torture him outright, but keeping him caged alone is torture enough. 

He feels reality slip away from him here, any previous sense of self is lost to the stream of the dead wailing into his ears, and now their hands have begun to manifest themselves across his skin, burrowing into his flesh. His own broken fingernails try to dig them out but there is little relief to be had, the effort futile. 

The guards return one morning to see his hands coated in his own blood, shaking. He has been kept awake and anger flashes through him, he will snap their necks where they stand, drain the blood from their face as he has done before and then when that is done—

They enter the cell and the  _ crack _ of the lance’s handle against his head is enough to send him to the ground. It hurts, but there is relief in having his eyes slide shut for a moment. 

When he wakes, his hands are tied against his back.  _ Can’t have you dead before your execution  _ they tell him and it riles him towards another bout of bitter laughter. 

Dedue appears one day, stepping through the fog. He isn’t sure how long it’s been. Somehow he is freed and Dedue spurs him up and out of the cell. The events are a whirl in his exhaustion, it has been difficult to eat what little they give him but he forces his body to run forward and barrel through whoever attempts to stop him.

Dedue is soon cut off by reinforcements who arrive to secure their valuable prisoner. They will execute him here, they threaten and he stops to turn back, to help save him one more time but Dedue pushes away and stands to block him from the advancing guards. 

Dedue barks out a final order, that he is to survive above all else and he adds it to the burden of last requests he carries with him before turning to run. 

The last glimpse he sees of Dedue is out of the corner of his right eye and Dedue stares right back, eyes filled with an unreadable emotion before he turns to make a final stand, axe held high. 

Later he finds that he often sees Dedue out of this eye, standing solemnly, eyes dead and boring forward, body not quite there but somehow real enough. He tries to plead with this new ghost, begs it to leave, but Dedue stays in his peripheral; he was just as stubborn in death as he had been in life. 

The others label this a distraction, and now a constant chorus of upset rings around his head. The chorus serves only to distract him as he crushes faction after faction of Imperial soldiers in his path. He tells them this one night, after the whole day had been nothing but an agonizing assault on him. 

They provide a solution. 

The anguish it brings him is not worth it, they decide. Their solution is simple enough. So it is not difficult, as he cowers under some rocks, to solve this problem for them, to accomplish at least one thing demanded of him. He will miss Dedue. 

His fingers do not shake as he reaches them under his eyelid, and even as the blood runs down his hand, his arm, they are resolute in their task driven on by the joyous cries of the dead.

He is never one to be overcome by a wound, but this one truly hurts. It is as if a knife has been driven into his skull, pushed forward by the icy dead themselves. 

When he glances down to see his crushed eye between his fingers he vomits nothing but bile. Tears stream from his intact eye while blood pours from the other but the sensation is distant. A familiar helplessness settles in, and that pain burns him too for it is much more intense than the void he normally feels. He knows no magic to stem the bleeding and a part of him longs for Dedue to return, to hover over him again, tend to his wounds and hold him close. 

Instead he is alone, and it is that night that he decides that he is dead as well. 

-+-

There are few comforts in his life now. 

He is surprised to learn that Felix’s existence is one such example.

When he hears the others say he is dead he makes little protest. Who is he to deny such a statement? He knows that the dead do not truly die. Rather they cling to the living, plaguing every thought until reality itself morphs to their whims; they rot what were once pleasant memories with the undeniable truth that their last moments were spent in agony. Of fearing an end. 

Felix says it to his face, once, before anybody else knows it to be true, before the vitriol he hid within began to erode his carefully built exterior.  _ No use talking about someone who’s long dead _ , he’d spat, eyes full of hate.

Privately, he thinks it a rather apt description.

Now, after too many long years, Felix’s return is the only he finds much comfort in. For Felix has always known that there is no use in trying to bring him back from some metaphorical ledge as the others wish. 

Working towards that goal, the Professor hounds his steps. Except rather than a swirling spectre, this Professor has steps which make  _ noise _ . They resonate around the stone walls and echo through his skull. Their skin is tinged red, veins full of blood rather than empty, and their eyes shine with compassion and concern rather than anguish or hatred. And they speak.

It is hard to make out the words at first, to distinguish the Professor’s teachings from his family’s cries or Dedue’s stoic demands or the agonizing screams of those slain by his hand, but he manages. It is a disappointment to learn that they do not understand that he is dead, as Felix does. As Dedue had. So now he finds the Professor often rejoins the blur of ghosts despite technically standing amongst the living; it feels wrong that they should be clouded by the ones that spur him towards vengeance, that pull and prod at his still living shell in hopes of gaining new life. 

It is maddening that he finds no relief in his teacher’s return.

Many others attempt to pacify him with their futile efforts at optimism. Annette suggests cleaning be their next task, the others chime in their agreement and soon the room is full of chatter, eyes turned towards a hopeful future. Whatever shred of his sanity remains roars in disapproval, in anger, and the dead that cling to him scream in their agony that this is not what they want and how  _ dare  _ such a thing be spoken in their presence and to bring them her bloodless head, not to  _ tidy up _ . It aches. He snaps at the group but cannot remember what he says. 

Neither him nor the ghosts can stand to be around the others.

So he stands alone, in a collapsed section of the cathedral. It is a twisted joke, he is sure of it, that the Goddess’ supposed home, the very same goddess who spent a lifetime ignoring his pleas for help, is to be a refuge to him now.

He is not alone. Felix watches him. Unlike the Professor, it is impossible to confuse Felix for a spectre. His eyes are wary and so painfully alive, so different than the dead’s that they are hard to look at. The pile of rubble is safer for his lone eye to lock onto. Yet it remains a comfort to know that Felix, who has always known him and the way he longs to coat his hands with blood until nothing remains, is the one that wards him from the living. Felix tells the others to not bother reasoning with the boar, that the cloak of insanity is too heavy, that the effort is wasted. That it is too late.

Felix is right, as he has always been, and it is a comfort. 

They don’t speak to one another, but Felix brings him something to eat that day, putting the plate down by his feet rather than handing it off directly, and the ghosts are mercifully quiet about it. Without words or touch exchanged there is nothing for them to dig into, to claw through him over, and he is left alone on the cathedral floor to eat with his hands.

It is tasteless and the weight of it in his stomach makes him ill. Yet, it is the best he’s had in years.

-+-

He is satisfied with this animalistic existence. It is routine to retreat each day to the Cathedral, someone watching his hide as if to make sure he does not lash out at the living. 

Some days Sylvain or Ingrid watch him, likely convinced by some notion of friendship or responsibility. They are less comforting than the unwavering hatred Felix shows and he finds days where they stand together, a trio of dear childhood friends, unbearable. Today though, is better. It is only Felix and today he has brought a book to read, which means one less set of eyes to hover over him. 

It is a relief that Felix does not attempt to speak to him, for it is unlikely that he can break through the overwhelming uproar of the dead. He cares little to hear Felix’s voice anyway, is what he tells himself. Fond childhood memories are too tarnished to be enjoyed now. The spectres do well to remind him that he is supposed to focus on his  _ goal  _ not the voice of a past friend, their cold hands crawling and pulling at his flesh as voices scold him, wailing so loudly that he raises his hands to his ears without thinking; they do little to protect him from torment and no matter how he shields his skin they still find their way in and -- 

There is a loud clatter as a worker drops a tool upon the tile floor somewhere behind him.

His eye blinks a few times. It has been open for some time and the air is beginning to burn. He drops his hands back to his sides.

Today Felix stands to his right in such a way that he cannot turn to look over subtly, to know if Felix has seen this moment of weakness. The empty socket behind his patch throbs in response, a sharp pain reaching deep into his head as if in mockery, but it is far too late to regret the loss of his eye. He will have to be satisfied with this large blindspot, this weakness. 

It is difficult. He does not know if Felix can see his hands shake. 

Crossing his arms is an acceptable solution for now and he presses them into his chest, huddling into his own cloak more than he cares to admit. There is a brief pang as he wishes to go lay down under a mound of quilts, to have tea brewed, even to simply stand in the sun, anything to just feel warmth again. 

The spectres wail at this. Pain pulses through his head, piercing through his absent eye, and it takes effort to keep his hands tucked against his chest, arms still crossed. The jaws of death are cold. He does not deserve the living body he has, it should not be a concern, it is better to be cold as they are. 

They suggest --  _ scream, demand _ \-- a better concern: the army’s resistance to his every command. Their constant attempts to deter him from the necessity of severing Edelgard’s head from her body so he can offer it up to them in a final act of retribution. There is never a  _ what of me after _ with their demand, but the goal is his one constant and he forces himself to find comfort in it. Confidence. He will achieve this, he must. The spectres settle down into their normal fog, screams fading into whispers or cries.

He knows they will return when he lets his guard down again, if he dares to think selfishly. So he looks to the pile of rubble and begins to count out patterns in the mess, hoping the distraction will help calm him until they return.

Felix brings a meal again that evening. He recognizes it as something Dedue often cooked for him, the closest thing he had to a favorite food. It is hard to remember that he is supposed to be dead when, for the first time in years, he can taste a distant hint of flavor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix pretends not to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many BL route spoilers, so little time

The Professor and Gilbert attempt to include him in their planning. It is a wasted effort to reel him in, a distraction from his need to burn a path to Enbarr and spread her guts across --

Felix shoves his shoulder, there is just a split second of contact but he cannot help the flinch that shudders its way to the surface. His fingers crush around his own crossed arms in an effort to keep from lashing out, to fight instinct.

“Pay attention, boar.” The look he gets doesn’t match the words; Felix’s eyes are wary, yes, but there is something else held there, something more concerned. He isn’t allowed to think on it long. 

Felix snaps his fingers near his own head, so he glares back. At least there was no touch this time. “What,” his voice grates out as he bristles under his cloak. He can hardly see Felix through his matted bangs, but he keeps the glare steady anyways.

“They asked you a question, you fool.” 

He slides his eye over to the Professor and Gilbert. They look so damn _ soft _and worried that it is nauseating. He looks down at the floor. They prompt him again; there are plans to contact Rodrigue for reinforcements, they wish to know his thoughts. 

He cares little, but if it gets them to agree to march to Enbarr sooner then so be it. 

“Why bother asking that animal?” Felix’s voice carries through the fog of torment but it is too distant to be offensive. Additionally, Felix is correct. “It does little more than wish to be set loose into battle so it may satiate some sick _ bloodlust _.” The words are spoken with such hatred that it pushes him into a brief moment of lucidity.

He is remarkably tired. Old wounds nag at him and the layer of grime that covers him is revolting, he should not be standing here among the living... He steals a glance over at the Professor for a moment just to check that _ yes, alive _ before looking back at Felix. It is all he can manage to stay upright without swaying, when was the last time he ate? 

Felix expects a response, they all do, but his throat seems unable to form words that do not relate to exactly what he has been accused of, a need to wash the Empire in the blood of its citizens. It is also revolting to find that he agrees with Felix’s sentiment. Why bother with him?

“Stop looking at me like that -- you’re not something to be pitied so stop trying to look so damn pathetic.” Felix snaps before pushing by the Professor. He notices the steps are more careful to pass him, that there is no contact and therefore no instinct to lash out. 

The chorus of ghosts redescends upon him with a throbbing headache, their cries angry at having been shaken off for a moment. They fall around him like a curtain and the world of the living feels distant again, as if he is not meant to be here, so he forces his feet to move and carry him away.

-+-

The Valley of Torment provides the wrong kind of warmth. It is too eerily similar to the flames from his nightmares, to the burning hell he and Dedue had crawled out of nine years ago and the scars from his past wounds burn in response. He can still remember the way the nurses hands had to pass over his skin each day, dressing his wounds and burns in desperate efforts to keep him alive; confused and held down he could do little but cry out, why was there so much pain?

Spectres take the opportunity to press in their hands as the nurses had, inflicting so much pain -- but it is not real, he reminds himself, lance piercing through his opponent’s chestplate with a _ snap _as it shatters through their ribcage. The dying man makes a last swing at him, axe connecting against his knee in a hit too feeble to pierce the plating but enough to bruise underneath. This pain is real and it helps to snap him out of his twisted reverie.

The man’s last breath rattles out from behind the heavy helmet, body collapsed upon the burning earth. Another life taken. 

There is no joy in this small victory and he is quick to lash out towards the next soul unfortunate enough to meet him in battle, a nearby soldier stunned by the brutal death of their comrade. Death joins them together in short time.

He takes a moment to look at their bodies. These soldiers... they wear armor that seems familiar and their combat styles are not entirely foreign… No matter. They charge and attempt to cut down his forces so he will do the same to them.

The heat is unbearable, every fiber of his body along with every spirit that haunts him _ hate _it. The further he exerts himself the heavier he breathes and soon smoke is swelling to fill his lungs with each breath. It threatens to break his resolve. His grip tightens and for a moment he thinks the lance might snap under his hand -- it would not be the first time. 

He checks constantly over the rugged landscape in an attempt to ground himself, to see those who call themselves his allies fighting alongside him, just _ please don’t let it be happening again, please don’t leave him here alone wracked with anguish _\-- the Professor meets his frantic gaze and gives him a solemn nod before barking out a command and continuing onward.

Another glance back down to the soldiers around his feet proves to be a mistake. Around him lay the corpses of not Empire scum but _Kingdom_ soldiers, he realizes, bodies smoldering under the heat of the flames and suddenly he is back, painfully young and so alone and _ everyone is dead_. Except now he is not the victim. He has done this. Blood drips from his hands, from his head, his chest, everywhere. The trails all lead back to him.

The ghosts wail. _ Why has he stopped? Cease this trembling and crush them. _

They wear armor from the Kingdom, it’s...

_ And you dare to align yourself with them? -- _ one simply laughs -- _ They would have you executed. You limped through the countryside like a wounded beast and people fled at the sight of you -- for good reason, the blood, remember the blood? -- so many rats! _

Too many voices at once, please stop, stop --

_ A one-eyed-demon, too sick to speak, remember? -- The Kingdom will not have you. -- you must exterminate those rats -- Get moving! -- The Commander approaches your ally, pierce his skull with this lance and remove those traitorous thoughts from his head for him. -- Move, move, move! _

Plink.

The world comes crashing back upon him all too quickly as a small rock bounces off his pauldron and immediately he is alert, lance in hand, experienced eye searching for a foe.

There is no foe, only corpses surrounding him -- “Boar.” Felix. In his blindspot.

He chokes down that infernal sense of fear and replaces it with anger. A growl suffices as a response when no words come to mind.

Felix stares at him a moment with a face that is not twisted into fear or disgust as he expects, it’s something sadder. It dulls the blade of his fury a bit. Felix seems to wait until the anger wears away until the heavy thought that Felix knew to not touch or even near him is all that remains.

“Are you…” Felix speaks slowly. There is a sigh, a shake of the head. Brows furrow. “Stop looking at me like that, you lunatic.” 

He blinks, eye dry and pained by smoke and heat. It is still so hot but he can’t bring himself to remove the cloak from his back, he does not wish to be stabbed so easily. Rats are everywhere. The heat radiating from the ground distorts his vision and causes Felix’s form to flicker in the patterns, perhaps Felix has joined the ranks of the dead? It would be better to not respond aloud.

“Dimitri.” His name? It pierces through the fog better than any of his titles could. “Do you even know what’s going on? Start paying attention or else you’re going to get yourself killed, already I had to fend off a whole front by myself because of you.” Felix settles into a rant and it is easy to tune it out into static.

He takes the opportunity to survey the field best he can through the flickering smoke and heat. He isn’t sure when it happened, but someone has felled the enemy commander. Allies are reconvening nearby, buzzing like flies and sending far too many stares his way. Moving is too monumental a task however, so he stays put. 

“Dimitri! I will throw another rock at you.” Felix is angry again. Familiar. It puts him at ease.

“Do not.”

Felix can’t hide his surprise at getting a response. A spark of hope. “I absolutely will,” he picks one up for show, tossing it easily in his hand while his eyes remain serious and locked forward.

He manages a small shake of his head, no, and forces his body to leave the battle-ready stance he’d lurched into. Not even the Valley of Torment pierces the eternally frigid grasp of the dead and soon the familiar numbness that follows combat settles in. Cold. And yet his armor is stifling in its heat and his hair clings to his skin, strands matting and tangling in the mess of sweat, dirt, and blood.

“Move already,” Felix snaps at him while taking a few brave steps forward. “It’s hard to look at you all...” A hand gestures vaguely in his direction, “looming amongst a pile of bodies like that.”

A quick look tells him that yes, he is standing in a pile of bodies and a flicker of panic returns. Felix keeps walking closer and he takes a small step of his own backwards. Felix stops.

The Tragedy. This is all too similar and thoughts come rushing to the surface accompanied by the cries of the spirits he must avenge, they cry out for action. He attempts to express his thoughts all at once to Felix, the Empire, Duscur’s innocence, why has he survived above others, _ Edelgard _ but all that comes out sounds lunatic even to his own ears. A few garbled sentences of, “They must be punished.” His mantra. “They will pay, they must.”

Felix’s face shuts back down into that disappointed, dark hatred. He spins and turns to leave towards the group where Rodrigue stands, head swiveling in its search for his son. “I’m done here. Follow along or stand here and burn for all I care.”

-+-

He is unable to shake off the numbness, his exhaustion. Even through the familiarity of his retreat to the collapsed cathedral, something nags at him in his mind, something clear and decidedly not a ghost. It does not urge him towards vengeance as the others do, rather it pushes him towards such wastes as speaking with his allies, or to comb through his hair and scrape the grime from his skin, or -- when he ignores those demands -- it nags him simply to eat.

Some days the nagging parrots Felix’s voice, even when he can see very clearly that Felix sits behind him in the pews in a determined silence. Others it is Dedue’s, at least, it is what he imagines Dedue’s voice to have been. The years have worn it away.

The days that Dedue’s voice haunts him again are unbearable, distressing him beyond the normal fog. He had already solved this problem, sacrificed an eye to prevent Dedue from haunting him, so why was he here? The nagging ceases, mercifully, just before he becomes too overwhelmed or upset. It is this fact that tells him this is truly Dedue’s ghost. They are also the days that Felix stands a little closer, careful to draw his attention when the torment begins to manifest in his actions. 

It is a painful cycle.

Today Felix asks, in that snappy way of his, what could possibly be bothering him so. There is nothing in the rubble that should aggravate or spur him to anger, so _ what_?

His words are barely a whisper in response. “I hear him still. Dedue.” The name hurts to say and his voice cracks over it.

Felix’s snappiness withers, the expected retort never comes. 

“I… I already…” It is impossible to explain the eye, the ghosts, all of it. 

“Shut it. I don’t need to hear any explanations from monsters.”

There is the retort, he is again too tired to be hurt by it. A weary glance at Felix, who stands to walk up to his side, is all he gives in return. He does not have a weapon with him but it is of no concern, he could snap Felix’s neck in an instant if pushed to it.

“What’s that dog want with you, anyway?”

He doesn’t know.

Felix crosses his arms with a sharp sigh through his nose. “I bet it’s not standing here feeling sorry for yourself, half-starved and covered in filth. You should bathe, bet your dog would like that. You reek, you know.”

That he knows. It is not a priority. 

Felix makes a thoughtful noise, words all bite to cover what must be some sort of sense of misplaced concern. “Don’t want a bath?” He wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting. Even real boars have cleaner hides than yours. Do you really think Dedue wants you like this?”

“No...” Even he can admit that truth.

“So go bathe.”

Matted hair brushes against his face as he shakes his head. “No.”

Angry Felix is back. He must be frustrating, it is why nobody else bothers anymore.

“So go eat instead.”

The thought causes his stomach to twist and it must reflect upon his face since Felix’s own glare softens. Or perhaps Felix simply knows him well enough. Either way, Felix continues without a response.

“How about this then. If you eat the plate I bring you, will you at least spend the night in your room? Sleep on the floor or stand in there, do whatever. It’s bad for morale to have you out wandering at night.” There is a slight pause before, “Or collapsed out here.” A glare returns to cover up the soft glance he’d been getting just a moment ago. “The monks can’t move you around and it’s bad form to have a filthy wreck like you laying in the middle of service. At least take some steps towards improving, the bar is low.”

He can’t help the, “What do you care?” that slips out.

Felix bristles at that. “_I _don’t care. Other people still do but they’re too chicken-shit to call you out on anything.” A finger points towards him but is careful to not touch against his chest. “So do whatever. Rot away standing here if that’s what you want,” he spits at him before turning on his heel and leaving.

He turns back to the rubble pile and snaps at anyone else who dares walk even near him for the rest of the day. The Professor approaches him once but leaves at a simple _ go away_. Despite the chorus of voices and spirits he carries or the monks going about their work in the cathedral around him, he feels noticeably alone without Felix’s stare.

Dedue does not even return.

As night falls he finally allows himself to sit, leaning forward into his knees with his face resting upon them. It is far from comfortable but better than standing. The bruised knee has the audacity to throb and ache as he presses his forehead onto it and it sparks a weary anger in him. Everything be damned. 

He must have dozed off, he realizes, eye snapping open just to see rows of pews stretched before him in the moonlight. He's on his side, on the ground. His cloak is very carefully pulled over him, he must have huddled under it while asleep. Another blink has him noticing a single candle lit near his head. Next to that is a metal cup of water and small plate holding some sort of food. A realization.

Felix has been here. 

The thought is nice. He manages to get himself upright and shakily moving forwards until he can reach the offering. The food has long gone cold in the night air and it turns to a tasteless paste in his mouth, but the fact that Felix somehow came back for him is pleasant enough for him to force it down. Besides, the action silences the nagging Dedue-voice and he is left with one of the more quiet nights he’s had in some time. Only when the water is consumed, the plate is empty, does he force himself to his feet and stagger in the direction of some place more private.

He does not wish to return to his room as Felix asked, but he can at the very least manage to collapse outside instead of at the altar. Steps towards improvement. 

_Small steps _the ghosts mock. _Pathetic_.

Steps regardless, he snaps back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue returns and begins to put the pieces back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends. big spoilers for BL route chapter 16. thank you :)

Time is too much to keep track of anymore, it is much too painful to realize the years he’s lost in his madness so it is preferable to simply let the fog roll over him. Faces and voices are a blur, dead and living finally alike. 

Everyone looks eternally disappointed, sad, and upset to see him and yet they are still _ kind_. They try to reach out. It’s all rather infuriating, neither he nor the ghosts can make sense of it after what was apparently five years of wandering as a monster. 

_ Slaughtering, resorting to petty thievery? — no son of mine — five years five years! _

They seat him in their meetings, careful to buffer him from the more fragile members of the army. 

_ You don’t deserve thoughtful gestures, filthy creature like you. — we deserve more, better! _

“I know, I know, I will repay you soon. It will end. This will end.”

They are persistent today. A bad day. Reasoning is difficult, his head burns with pain he can’t ever quite reach and it is making everything worse. 

“What will end, your Highness?” Rodrigue asks patiently. 

A deep, shuddering breath. It takes a moment to come back to the shell of his body, currently seated at the head of the long table. He has curled over its edge slightly, hands wringing together in his lap to keep them occupied. He manages to drag his eye up in a glare. 

_ Tell them! We must hurry, it has been far too long, time marches forward and yet you remain here! _

“They already know,” he hisses back, eye darting to glare at the misty face before he brings it back to rest on the man who had prompted him. The chorus hasn’t quieted and they are especially hard to hear through today. 

What had been asked?

Everyone stares. He glares back, fury settling like ice in his chest. 

Rodrigue looks as if he has been hit across the face, many others sport similar looks but avoid his glare. Only Felix seems resigned to this reality. 

“I told you to just leave him out of this, old man. He was doing a fine enough job of —“

A sigh. “Enough, Felix.” They continue to speak in hushed whispers, angry and just quiet enough to evade his understanding. It does nothing to help the situation so he attempts to find his own voice. 

“We march for Enbarr,” he growls out, standing to his full height. “Enough of this foolishness. We waste time.” 

There are protests as he leaves but none are brazen enough to actually attempt to stop him as he prowls away from the building. _ It is unfortunate_, the nagging voice comments to him, but it does not attempt either. 

-+-

The Great Bridge of Myrddin is the next obstacle that stands between him and Enbarr now, the next thing for him to tear through. 

It is a crumpling awful thing, no longer great now that he has crushed nearly an entire faction upon its cobblestones, his own allies nipping at his heels in their efforts to match his pace.

His armor and momentum deflect physical blows with ease and soon the wild furs upon his back are slick with blood and sweat. _ Monster, nothing more than a filthy boar you are. _A brigand dares to stand ground before him, crying some nonsense about the Empire’s glory before he is cut down with a lance to the gut, their death cruel and simple. 

_ Fool. _

Areadbhar is all that keeps up with the unrelenting pace. There is a small part of him, shattered but still remaining, that feels a hint of childlike wonder at being able to wield such a relic. His own blood hums as it cuts through Imperial armor with ease, his strength finally matched with a weapon worthy of it. There is no fear of snapping its handle or of losing the blade in the depths of a soldier’s chest and he lets himself exist for a moment in that sick joy. 

He didn’t necessarily _ need _ the weapon but even he could admit its advantages. 

The dead disagree with him as usual, his father roaring in his ears _you don’t deserve to wield that_ _relic_ but voices were always easier to ignore in the heat of combat. 

He adds another to the dead’s ranks, Areadbhar’s red glow casting an unearthly sheen upon the crushed face of the Imperial archer beneath him. 

Time flows here. There is a clear goal and it is easy enough to trudge forward. 

That is why, when he hears the nagging voice, _ Dedue’s _ voice, from a very determinable point in his blindspot, the world shudders to a stop. 

For the first time in years he hears nothing, the roar of the battlefield drowned beneath the sudden surge of anguish the sound has brought upon him. He turns, Areadbhar’s bloody blade scraping the cobblestones as he relaxes his stance to do so. 

Dedue is here, walking up to his side; words are formed by moving lips but they pass by unheeded in his shock. It is all he can do to stare in slack-jawed horror. He cannot read Dedue’s expression and _ it is littered with scars _ he realizes with another pang. 

It is hard to find his voice. “Dedue?” A whimper. It comes out meek and pathetic, nothing like the snarling beast he has come to know himself as. 

“Yes.” Dedue’s expression is relieved but tinged with something else. Not fear, nor anger. Not quite pity. Sadness? It is hard to look at something so genuine. 

He must ask. “You… you are _ alive_?” 

“Yes, your Highness.” A small smile, private, along with a nod. Dedue is wearing new armor, he notes during his frantic examination, so surely he cannot have been imagined. It is much too detailed. Dedue’s image does not fade out around the edges, his eyes are bright and clear and it is all too much. He looks painfully real, solid. Present. Looking at him is enough to stop time, to erase the pains of the battlefield surrounding them for a moment. The clash of steel on steel, the flashes of magic, the stench of death, it all fades into the background as he locks his gaze forward. 

He manages a thick breath, good eye watering up while his ruined eye simply aches. 

Anguish bubbles again. “Dedue. Promise me.” _ Before this presence of mind escapes me_. 

Dedue looks serious for a moment. “Anything.”

It is all he can do to choke out the words. “_ Never _throw your life away again. I beg of you, please.”

Dedue watches as a few tears manage to spill over and run streaks down his face. Suddenly he feels the blade of shame pierce through his heart at the sorry state he must be in. He knows that he reeks worse than the corpses around his feet, that he is spattered in their blood, that his own blood is mixed in with that. He has not managed to eat properly or comb his hair or —

_ Simple tasks too much to ask for? _

Yes, yes, it is all too much. 

It is always Dedue to bring him back. “I promise, Dimitri. My brothers, soldiers of Duscur, have helped me to return to your side. I will not squander this chance.” His arm crosses his chest in a symbol of loyalty and he bows deeply. “I am here now. Let me help you. Together we may pave a way forward.” 

He does not deserve this, Dedue. This loyalty. He feels crazed. Exhausted. Like a rabid beast that needs to be put down. 

Dedue picks up on this somehow and clasps his shoulder, eyes full of question as to if this contact is okay. 

It was okay. Dedue knew him so well, how did he always know? He’s missed him. 

He only realizes he’s spoken aloud in wild murmuring when Dedue clasps his other shoulder and draws in his gaze with a gentle order to hush. “We must emerge victorious here first. Then we may speak.” 

He nods mutely, voice no longer trusted. It is simple to lean into the touch, to let Dedue hold him in this paused moment; for the first time in ages touch brings comfort. Dedue’s hands wrap around his back under the bloodied cape, they are so gentle, mindful to not agitate scars and incite his blind fury. 

He attempts to steady out both his breathing and his shaking limbs; it would not do to be so weak while wielding a weapon of legend, he could not afford it there is not enough _ time _ —

Dedue hushes him again. Were his words aloud? He cannot tell. “Dimitri. I know you are… troubled.” From where he is pressed into his chest he can feel Dedue’s breath hitch over the words. “I will see you through this fight. Please remain with me.” 

The other allies have cleaned up through the wake he’s left behind and they begin to clamor around them. Do they not realize time has stopped? Why do they move? How?

Dedue strengthens his grip slightly. Protective. 

Ghosts hiss at him, fuzzy and distant in his haze as he tiredly attempts to return to himself. They are still in a battlefield. The roar of combat begins to fade back in and he recognizes his fear as it does; he does not wish to return to being a monster quite yet.

Gilbert and Rodrigue storm around, commanding voices barking out orders to their forces. It’s what he should be doing but he can’t seem to bring himself to move. 

There is a shout at them to _ get moving _ and he feels one of Dedue’s hands leave his back to wave away the intruder while ensuring they will resume shortly. 

He doesn’t want to. 

“Your Highness.” Another pause before, “May I hold you to a promise as well?” 

“Yes,” he replies tiredly. 

“Do not die again.”

Judging by the look Rodrigue gives them, the words seem confounding. At least to those who do not understand, but he was not them. He pulls away to meet Dedue’s eyes. 

“I understand.”

He settles back into his normal disgust and loathing easily as he notes that, where they have touched, Dedue is coated in the same film of bloody filth that ordinarily clings to him. It feels wrong. Dedue deserves the world, to not be on this infernal bridge all in the name of revenge, he thinks.

But Dedue simply nods in return, hitches up the grip on his axe, and turns forward toward their enemies. He too strengthens his grip on Areadbhar and is rewarded with the glow’s return along with the now familiar thrum of power as it intertwines with his blood. 

He turns to look over the bridge; a demonic beast stands in their way and who better to fell such a creature than another beast? He charges and Dedue follows. 

-+-

Time stops again that day as a blade sinks through his bloodied fur, through his armored shell and into his chest. It’s pulled free with a sickening sound and the girl behind him wails with cries for revenge. He stumbles forward. 

_ Is this how he sounds? _

The second strike hurts more, sinking through crucial joints in his shoulder in an attempt to reach his heart. 

He has killed someone she knew, there is little doubt. He understands. To die at hands such as these fits him but the Professor and his other allies seem to disagree, running for his assassin with weapons drawn. 

What he does not understand is why the next strike does not come.

With a sickening thud it is not him that hits the ground but _ Rodrigue. Another, another, another — why? _is all that pierces through his head while a swell of emotion overwhelms him. The fog wails and presses around him, through him. 

_ No more — _

He feels something in his head snap.

The wounds in his chest burn, the blade likely poisoned by that rat but they are nothing in comparison to the agony he’s locked in his head with. 

So for him, time stops.

Felix approaches to take Rodrigue away in his dying moments, _ out of the boar’s grasp, _ and he offers no resistance. Dedue and Mercedes approach in attempt to stem his own wounds. Their mouths move, they speak, how do they manage to continue? 

He wants to ask how they do it. He meets Felix’s gaze, Rodrigue’s corpse between them, as he attempts to understand. Felix is still able to move. He is reacting to the others, snapping at him, being held back by Sylvain. Alive even after so much death around him. 

He has taken both Glenn and Rodrigue from Felix yet all he does is glare in return.

_ It should be my husk, my corpse bleeding out onto the stones, not his — Felix should gut me right here, crush my skull, anything — Rodrigue was not supposed to die too — _he panics. 

Moving is too much. Thinking, feeling. All of it is overwhelming. Air barely passes through his chest and he chokes for more of it, base instinct rather than self-preservation. The scene blurs before his eye and he feels his body finally give out and collapse forward. Areadbhar falls with a clatter. It is hard to care, now. 

He can barely register the hands that catch him, Dedue’s likely, since the nagging voice is close in his ear. His chest burns, with the deep wounds yes, but the agony of loss burns more strongly. 

It’s familiar. 

They should leave him here, no good is to come from following him. To be close is a danger, he brings only death. He tries to tell this to whoever is holding him, carrying perhaps? His body feels distant, numb. 

There is a _ shhh _ from the nagging voice. 

Time slips away to the fog. 

It returns only in flashes. 

A moment of an elixir being forced down his throat. He cannot taste it but gags anyway_. _

A flash of being sat on a horse; Dedue sits behind to hold him up. He liked horses once, their freedom, he thinks feverishly before the fog reminds him that he does not deserve to have _ likes_. 

A few snippets of countryside. It all looks the same. Have they been riding forever?

Some people attempt to speak to him. To console him. He wishes to snap at them or force them into a more permanent silence. _ Go speak to Felix _ he manages to think but the words never get formed quite right. Something in him feels fundamentally broken. Off. 

He lets that wound fester until the outside world blurs away again. 

It is only when he is seated in a small room, _ the Monastery you fool_, that he comes to. 

“Your Highness.”

A blink. 

His armor is gone, Areadbhar —

He moves to stand, panic settling in, but is firmly pushed back down. A bed, he realizes as he falls onto it. 

“Your belongings are secure, I will wash and repair them myself.”

The nagging voice. But it has hands? How was he pushed?

No time to think about this. Rodrigue is dead. He has another dying wish to fulfill. Rodrigue had asked him to follow his own goals. Aspirations. Did he have those? 

_ Edelgard’s head! Rend her limb from limb, scatter her into the streets and let the rats — _

“Dimitri.”

His name, the voice dares to stoop so low? He is not worthy of such humanity. Anger is back and it burns in his chest. “_What?” _he grinds out between his teeth. 

“Look at me.” A pause. “Please.”

Why should he comply? But the voice had asked nicely... He slides his gaze upward. 

Oh—

Anger evaporates. He almost misses it, for all that remains in its wake is the sheer amount of anguish he carries and he is just so _ confused. _ “Dedue?”

Dedue seems sad but not perturbed as he stands with hands resting out onto his shoulders as if to hold him in place. Without the layers of fur and armor he feels decidedly unbeast-like sitting here. 

“Yes. Good.” Dedue responds quickly with relief apparent in his tone. “How are you feeling?”

Fury flares up a bit once more. _ Feeling? _He glowers up into that concerned gaze as his hands’ grip on his knees tightens. It agitates a bit, they’re sore, and he realizes belatedly that they’re covered only by the thin layer he donned under his plating. When had even his greaves been removed? He could not afford to be left so vulnerable. “Why does it matter?” he snaps out as his mind races. 

Dedue thinks for a moment before carefully responding with, “Because it always matters. If not to you, then to me.” 

He can’t manage a response but he feels his face twist, a lump in his throat. His chest burns as well and looking down he notices he is covered almost entirely with bandages. _ Poisoned, surely poisoned _ the fog chants at him and he echoes their sentiment. 

Aloud, apparently as Dedue chimes back in a steady tone, “It has been neutralized. You must rest now.”

He shakes his head. He can barely make his voice strong enough to break out of his throat. “I cannot, I have to kill her, I must continue or else,” he breaks off quickly, the _ or else it’s all for nothing, these sacrifices _ stuck in his chest _ . _The words sound hollow even to him but he tries to stand regardless. 

Dedue simply looks at him and gives a small shake of the head. His hands are still on his shoulders and they press him back down and this time, back into the bed itself. 

“No. You must be tired. If you cannot sleep I will procure a draught for you.”

He blinks again, the action all too conscious for his liking; his eye burns but with what he does not know. It is stupid to feel like this. Like his mind has been cleaved in two when in reality it is his shoulder and chest which are torn apart, his knees which ache, his fingers which have broken more times than he cares to remember. 

“I am,” he manages to admit quietly. “Tired.”

Dedue nods solemnly. There are two of him and blinking no longer solves the problem. 

“Stay?” he asks with what he hopes is not a tone that betrays his desperation. The world is quickly spiraling back into a blur and he finds himself settled in among too-warm quilts and an overly plush pillow. 

It’s been a long while since he’s slept in a bed, the exact time lost. 

He notes a weight sink in to his side, a hand intertwining around his own, a voice distant but comforting just as he finally gives in, selfishly, to slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback sustains me <3 thank you for reading regardless !


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